Patricia Hagan

by Loves Wine

  One of the men dragging Sally shouted, “See what happens, nigger? See what happens when you think you’re white? We ain’t puttin’ up with shit-skins!”

  Sally was thrown toward the fiery spectacle, landing only a few feet from the flames. The heat seared her skin and scorched her nightgown, and she scrambled in the dirt, desperate to get away. The men allowed her to go only so far, then circled her, preventing escape.

  “This is just a warning,” one man roared, kicking Sally in her side. She drew herself into a knot, writhing.

  A man near Holly yelled to her, “You listening to all this, nigger-lover? You seein’ it good? ’Cause if the wench don’t get out, we’ll come back. And next time we’ll hang her black ass and burn down your goddamn shack.”

  “Like this!” another called, racing to the cabin. He tossed the blazing torch and it landed squarely on the porch.

  Laughing, shrieking like demons, the ghostly figures ran into the woods and disappeared. A few seconds later, rapid hoofbeats reverberated against the ground.

  The porch caught fire. Oblivious to the scraping of her body against the dirt, Holly struggled forward, looking at Sally, pleading silently, trying to shout despite the gag, but Sally was writhing on the ground, hysterical.

  At last Holly reached Sally, throwing herself against her. That snapped Sally out of it, and she began untying Holly’s ropes.

  Freed, Holly yanked the gag from her mouth. “Water! From the well, Sally. Hurry or the whole place will go.”

  Holly grabbed a straw broom near the door and began beating wildly at the flames. The straw caught fire. Cursing, she tossed the broom away and ran inside. Grabbing the remainder of the catfish stew from the fireplace, she ran back to the porch and flung it on the flames as Sally reached the porch with a pail of water.

  They stood and watched as the last sizzling flames died out.

  Only then did Sally’s hysteria return. Holly made sure Sally was not really injured from the kick, then helped her into bed. She found an old jug of muscadine wine Grandpa had made long ago. Pulling the cork free, she winced at the rank smell but urged Sally to drink. “You’ve got to get hold of your self.”

  Holly was blinking back tears of her own—but not tears of fright. No. She was beyond fear. She was mad. Spitting mad. Fighting mad. “Drink,” she commanded harshly, and Sally coughed and choked on the burning wine. “Drink and then try to sleep, Sally. It’s over.”

  Sally gasped and swallowed, shaking her head.

  “Ain’t over,” she choked. “Ain’t gonna be over till I get out of here.”

  Holly shushed her. “Nonsense. They’re only using you as an excuse. Don’t worry. They won’t catch me off-guard again.”

  Sally cried herself to sleep, and after she was quiet, Holly placed the gun within easy reach, then looked out the window. The burning cross was almost out, only a mass of charred timbers now. She stared at it until the sight sickened her. She finally fell asleep, the gun beside her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Scott Colter lay on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling of room number 7, the Delta Hotel. The mattress sagged and the sheets were gray. What was left of the wallpaper was a ridiculous pattern of horses and cactus plants. Besides the iron-poster bed, there was a rickety table, a chair with splintered rungs, and a rusting spittoon. From the saloon below, the sounds of a tinny piano and raucous laughter drifted upward.

  It was a goddamn depressing place, but it was perfect for meeting a woman without being seen. Directly outside the door was a narrow, dimly lit hallway running straight to the stairs, and the stairs led down to a back door that opened into an alley. It had to be that way. Damned if he could afford for anyone to know he was taking Lisa Lou Pollock to bed.

  He swung his legs down onto the floor and walked to the window overlooking the alley. It was pitch dark. Good. Maybe she wouldn’t come. That’d be fine.

  He had brooded about this all day. He didn’t like using women, and ever since Marlena had used him, he knew firsthand how it felt. But, well, this was different—a little different anyhow. Lisa Lou was the kind who always had to have a man. If it weren’t him, it’d be somebody else. So it might as well be him, because he had a job to do.

  Oh, Lisa Lou had let him know it was Roger Bonham and his money she really wanted. Scott was just someone to take her pleasure with, and damned if she didn’t seem to love it. A real wildcat. Nothing shy about that one. She swore he was the best she’d ever had, and, without conceit, he figured she was telling the truth. He’d always had a belief where women were concerned, that if a man took a woman to bed, he owed it to her to make sure she was properly pleasured. He enjoyed knowing a woman left his arms satisfied. Most came back to him as fast as they could.

  Holly was the only exception.

  He slammed the palm of his hand against the wall. He wished he didn’t care. He’d tried so hard not to. But something about her had gotten to him and wouldn’t go away. She hated Yankees. Well, time would take care of that. But what did he want from her? Hell, he didn’t know.

  She despised him. He could live with that. She never wanted to see him again. He could fix that. But there was something about her he couldn’t fathom, something that drew him. What?

  The irony was, she was right in the middle of his real reason for being in Vicksburg. She didn’t know that, of course. No one must know, or his secret mission would be destroyed.

  He rubbed his eyes. Everything was so almighty complicated.

  Meanwhile, there was Lisa Lou. That had worked out well because her father, Talton Pollock, was probably a member of the Night Hawks. In fact, Scott was confident he knew the identity of all the Night Hawks. Oh, but there was more, much more. And thanks to Lisa Lou, he now knew that Roger Bonham was paying visits to her father. That was just fine, since Roger Bonham was Scott’s primary interest.

  The doorknob turned. By the time the door opened, Scott had grabbed his holster from the back of the chair and was pointing his gun.

  Lisa Lou stepped inside, a flurry of pink skirts and lace petticoats. Her golden hair hung loose about her glowing face. She smiled seductively. “Oh, my, Colonel,” she cooed. “You aren’t going to shoot a woman just because she wants your body, are you?”

  He replaced his weapon and turned to face her as she scurried across the room to him. He was bare-chested, wearing only dark blue trousers, and she danced her fingers through the thick, dark mat of hair, provocatively kissing his nipples. “I’ve counted the hours till this moment, Scott. It’s all I think about—being with you.”

  He wrapped one strong hand around her neck and laughed. “When you aren’t thinking about getting Roger Bonham to marry you.”

  She made a face, pressing closer. Her breasts were spilling from the bodice of her dress, and she knew it. “Now, Scott. Don’t you be jealous. A girl has to look out for herself, and you did say you’re not the marrying kind.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And if I were? Would you marry a poor soldier who’s lucky if he makes forty dollars a month?”

  She fluttered her long lashes, a look she had practiced many hours before a mirror. “Of course I would, if I loved him and he loved me. That’s all that really matters. Besides, you’re a colonel, so you make more than that. You’re just teasing me.”

  “And if Roger Bonham were to ask you to marry him, and you didn’t love him,” he goaded, “don’t you think his wealth would compensate for the lack of affection?”

  She laughed, shoving her breasts against his chest. She moved her hands to his narrow waist, pulling him even closer. “Why, Scott, darling, you’re jealous. And I thought I was just someone to take your pleasure with. And what pleasure it is!”

  Good, Scott decided, let her think he was jealous. She wouldn’t suspect the real reason for his probing questions. “Have you seen Roger lately?”

  She shrugged. “Not socially. He did come to see Papa this evening, though. I thought maybe he was coming by to ask to escort
me to his father’s wedding this weekend, but he was there to see Papa. He seemed mad about something.”

  “Did you leave before he got through talking to your father? He might have been planning to speak with you when they were finished.”

  She moved her fingers down his stomach to the front of his trousers, probing teasingly. “He didn’t stay long. He and Papa went into the study, and after ten minutes or so he walked out of the house without even looking at me. It was strange, because he’d been by earlier, then left to go home, and then he came all the way back again. It was already dark. I didn’t ask any questions, though, because Papa gets very upset if I’m nosy.”

  Scott was having trouble concentrating. Her cool fingers were probing deeper into his trousers, and she was tickling him expertly.

  “Maybe Roger’ll ask you tomorrow,” he murmured, pressing his hands against her buttocks.

  She shook her head. “I’d rather go with you this weekend. He’ll be too busy to pay any attention to me.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “If I were as cunning and conniving as the Maxwell women, I wouldn’t have any problems. That Claudia certainly knew what she was doing when she set her sights on Jarvis Bonham. I reckon he’s the richest man in Mississippi, and she’ll be the richest woman.”

  Scott decided now was not the time to tell her he had no plans to escort her to the wedding. He was properly aroused, and he said in a husky voice, “Unfasten my trousers. See if you find anything you want.”

  “Oh, yes,” she laughed, delighted, nimbly undoing the buttons. “I’ll find something I want…and then I’ll get what I want.”

  She freed his erect organ and began to slide her hand expertly up and down it, gently but urgently. She knew exactly what she was doing. “Suppose you get undressed and into bed,” he whispered.

  “No.” Her voice was so firm, so sharp. He stared at her, and suddenly she dropped to her knees before him, placing her hands firmly on his hips. Her eyes were feverish as she whispered, “I want to make you happy, Scott. I want to please you till you beg to be my slave forever.”

  He started to protest, but her lips closed around him and he was, for the moment, lost…

  When she had taken him to glory he reached down and lifted her to her feet. He dropped her on the bed and, without bothering to undress her, lifted her skirts and removed her underthings and plunged in. She gasped, moaned, whispered, “I can’t believe you’re still ready. Oh, Scott, oh—” Her words were lost in cries of ecstasy…

  Later, when they lay side by side, Lisa Lou once again brought up the subject of the weekend. “Even though Holly hates me, my parents received invitations to everything. Jarvis is determined to make his silly old wedding the biggest thing that ever happened around here. At least, with you escorting me, Holly will see that she can’t have every man around here. It’s obvious she’s got eyes for you.”

  Scott was bored. If there was one thing he hated, it was pillow talk. He’d pleased her several times, and she’d taken care of him. What did they have to talk about?

  It was different when there was real caring. Hell, he’d wanted to stay with Holly, talk to her, just be with her. With Lisa Lou, it was a waste of time. “Don’t you think you should be getting home?” he asked. “Your father might find you gone. I don’t need him looking for me with a shotgun.”

  She hadn’t bothered to pull her skirts down and she continued to lie there with her legs spread. She liked the way she looked. Absently, she answered, “Oh, Papa won’t check on me. He rode out right after Roger left. Mama went to bed with one of her headaches.”

  Scott tensed. If Talton Pollock left after a visit from Roger Bonham, that probably meant the two were in cahoots, as he’d suspected. “No need to take any chances. It’s late. You should get back,” he said abruptly, jumping off the bed to dress.

  Irritably, Lisa Lou pushed her skirt down and sat on the edge of the bed. “Why are you always like this?” She glared at him. “You never want to stay with me. It might interest you to know that a woman doesn’t like to be dismissed…like”—she sputtered with anger—“like a prostitute who’s finished her job!”

  Scott suppressed a smile. He was well aware of a woman’s needs. “I’m sorry. All right?” he said softly. “I’ve got things I have to do. Forgive me?”

  She pouted, folding her arms stiffly across her bosom. “Are you going to escort me this weekend.”

  He took a deep breath. Time to get it over with. “Sorry. I’m not sure I’ll even be going.”

  He braced for the storm. It came.

  Lisa Lou exploded in fury, leaping to her feet to call him a selfish bastard. Screaming that she would never speak to him again, she flounced out of the room and slammed the door.

  Scott reached for his holster and buckled it on. He’d give her two days before she came to the post to whisper what room she’d be waiting in. She’d thrown fits before when she didn’t get her way, and it never bothered him. Make a slave of him? Hardly. Only as long as the passion lasted.

  He left the hotel and made his way back to the post. All was quiet. A good sign. He exchanged salutes with the sentry outside the door to the main building, then went to his office. Taking a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk, he poured a drink, then sat down and propped his feet up.

  Holly came to mind. But then, Holly always came into his mind. She could be devastatingly beautiful at a formal party, or little-girl, pixie-cute in the woods.

  It was no accident that he’d been in the swamps the day they met. He’d been there to look around, learn the land, try to figure out just where the gold had been brought ashore and buried.

  The gold. The goddamn gold.

  That was why he’d been sent to Vicksburg in the first place—to look for Union gold that no one was even supposed to know was missing.

  It had happened in the final weeks of the war. A shipment of gold worth over a million dollars had disappeared somewhere in Missouri while being secretly transported from California to Washington. The general responsible for the unauthorized transfer, now a recently appointed undersecretary of state, had been ordered to leave the gold where it was, in California, in a fort. But the general didn’t share his colleagues’ optimism over a Union victory. What if the South won? So, on his own initiative, the general moved it secretly, planning to get it safely to Washington. He expected to be rewarded handsomely for taking initiative and saving the fortune.

  The Federal government had not known of the plans, but thieves had. The gold was stolen. The security lapse had to have occurred inside, and Colonel Scott Colter was given orders to find the shipment and do so quietly. The entire operation had to be conducted discreetly. If word got out that the gold was missing, a great many people would suffer, not the least of whom would be the undersecretary of state who had caused the mess.

  The gold had been part of a wagon train, accompanied by a handful of guards. The raid occurred just as the wagons were crossing the Missouri River. The guards had been left for dead, but one had lived and reported overhearing the thieves talking about plans to head down the Mississippi River. Miraculously, the man had heard the name “Bonham” spoken twice, during the raid.

  Scott took that information to the general, now undersecretary, responsible for illegally removing the gold in the first place, and he had stared incredulously at Scott. “Bonham! Jarvis Bonham could have leaked the information. I trusted him. I had to. I had to get his permission to cross his land in a stretch not normally traveled along the Missouri River. A long stretch in Illinois. Hell, we couldn’t risk a public crossing. But…but Bonham’s a respectable man. I’ve known him a long time. I’d never suspect he couldn’t be trusted, not in a million years. Not Jarvis Bonham.”

  “We’re not talking about a million years,” Scott quipped. “We’re talking about a million dollars. That kind of money can sell a lot of trust, General.”

  Scott investigated Jarvis Bonham’s background and found himself sharing the general’s surprise. T
here was no shadow on his past. He had great wealth, too, but Scott supposed even a wealthy man might be tempted by a million dollars in gold.

  His gut feeling was that Bonham was not responsible, but he continued the investigation according to the little he knew. A break had come with the bribing of a river rat, Sol Hinky, who knew something worth knowing. Hinky had been drinking and dozing in the bushes along the bank, in Illinois, when he heard a commotion. Waking, he watched in the moonlight as crates were loaded onto a boat. The crates were heavy, he knew, because it took several men to carry each one.

  He’d not overheard anything, he told Scott, because not long after he woke up, he developed a bad case of the hiccups and someone heard him, knew he was there. He took off running, and they’d come after him, shooting at him. Frightened, he had never told anyone what he’d seen. He’d also never told anyone that he’d recognized one of the men helping load the ship. A ne’er-do-well named Wiley Olmstead who lived in nearby Cairo.

  Scott took another swallow of the whiskey as he recalled that next crucial juncture. He couldn’t let anyone know he was looking for the shipment of gold. He’d told Hinky only what the old drunk needed to know and no more. If Olmstead knew that the boxes he loaded had contained gold, then he wasn’t going to talk about it. Further, he could tip off the thieves that someone was on their trail.

  Scott found Olmstead and followed him around awhile until he learned what an unscrupulous man he was. Not liking the method, but knowing it was the only route open to him, he accosted Olmstead one night as he left a saloon, held a gun to his neck, and took him to the very dock where the gold had been loaded. “You helped load something here a few weeks back. Tell me everything you know about it. Everything, Olmstead, ’cause I know everything about you.”

  “I ain’t tellin’ you a goddamn thing!” his prisoner screamed.

  Scott gagged him easily and dragged him into the murky river, tying him neck-deep to one of the pier pilings. When Olmstead’s eyes were bulging with fear of the water moccasins that abounded, Scott yanked him out of the water and tossed him on the muddy bank. He loosened the gag, and Olmstead babbled, begging to be believed. He didn’t know what was in the crates. “They gimme ten dollars to help get the boat in here and out, ’cause I know the tricky currents. That’s all I did—helped ’em in and out. I don’t know nothing.”